


The Adventure Of The Unwilling Dinner-Guest (The Killing Of Perkins Outside The Holborn Bar)

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [52]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Cannibalism, Disguise, F/M, Killing, M/M, Murder, Slow Burn, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 01:11:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15401658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Guess who's coming to dinner? It's a murderer who finds that the wheels of justice can sometimes turn in unexpected ways (with a little help from Sherlock, of course) – because this dinner guest might well end up BEING dinner!





	The Adventure Of The Unwilling Dinner-Guest (The Killing Of Perkins Outside The Holborn Bar)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [221bsweetheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/221bsweetheart/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

My brother and his friend Watson undertook two cases upon their return from the Cambrian Hills both of which later saw the light of day as _The Copper Beeches_ and _The Dying Detective_. Sherlock was busy weaving a web around the vile Professor Moriarty at this time, so it was an achievement in itself that he found time to not only deal with this small matter, but to bring about justice in a quite unique way. And a more than humorous one.

Kean said that this was one of his favourite cases, especially as it gave him certain 'ideas'. When he later tried those 'ideas' out on me, I needed the best part of a day to recover! The first time, anyway.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D._

As I have said elsewhere, Holmes considered the quality of men in the Metropolitan Police Service variable at best. He did however have time for those whom he considered if not on a par with his great brain, then at least with the potential for greatness. And it was with pleasure that I saw one of these reappear at Baker Street that early autumn day.

Unfortunately it was not pleasure that had brought the behemoth Sergeant Josiah Smith back to Baker Street.

“We lost young Perkins”, he said mournfully.

I had no idea who he was talking about, but of course Holmes knew. He turned to me.

“Percival Perkins was one of the best young constables out there”, he said heavily, “in a field where there is rather too much dross.” 

He turned back to our friend. 

“How did it happen, Henriksen?”

“He was investigating a disturbance outside the Holborn Bar”, the policeman said. “Stabbed; died in minutes.”

“Who was it?” Holmes asked.

The sergeant frowned for some reason.

“He was stabbed by Steve Dixie”, he said slowly.

The name meant nothing to me.

“A hired thug, without whom London would be a better place”, Holmes said sourly. “But he was not the man behind the killing, was he?”

The policeman looked decidedly awkward, but nodded.

“His current paymaster Bobby Lane got him to kill him”, he said. “Dixie is a rat, but he's just the weapon here. We want the man who wielded the weapon.”

“I take it that this Mr. Lane is powerful enough for the idiot Dixie to spend some years in gaol for him?” Holmes asked dryly. The sergeant nodded.

“Not only that, he has connections in the criminal fraternity who'd cheerfully end both Dixie and his family if he didn't behave”, he said. “Lane's going to get away with murder.”

Holmes thought for a moment, then smiled.

“I suppose I could ask Mr. Khrushnic for a favour in removing a blight from our capital”, he said, “but he would then want his pound of flesh in return. Except....”

He stopped and thought some more, then smiled darkly. His next question took us both by surprise.

“How are your friends Mr. Bell and Mr. Hope?”

The sergeant gasped at that, but as Holmes continued to stare at him he eventually managed an answer.

“Both very well, sir”, he said. “As I told you last time we met, Ben is engaged now, and he wants to follow me into the Force.”

“I assume that Mr. Lane knows _your_ inimitable form”, Holmes said, “so you will need two other associates for what I have in mind. And quite a lot of feathers.....”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

It was some days later. Acting on Holmes' instructions Sergeant Smith had invited Mr. Lane in for questioning, and had been told to make sure that he was released as close to six o'clock as could be arranged. I did not see why this was but I trusted Holmes who had arranged to meet me in an old warehouse in the docks and had told me to come well wrapped up as we would be right down on the riverside. I was there on time but when I arrived and met him I got an awful shock.

“What _are_ you wearing?” I managed at last. He was dressed up like an old-fashioned colonial gentleman, a dapper white suit, cane and panama hat. He smiled at me.

“Unfortunately I cannot have you at the centre of things as I would like”, he said ruefully, “but there are some offices which overlook where tonight’s 'fun and games' will take place, and you will easily be able to see and hear through the missing windows without being spotted. Though I think that the only person who matters may have more pressing concerns that being watched from on high!”

Thus unfairly piquing my curiosity he led me into the warehouse. In the dim moonlight there seemed to be something large and black sitting in the middle of the floor. I stared incredulously at it but I was not mistaken – it was indeed a giant cauldron. There was a ladder up the side and even a smattering of straw around the base; there was also a small lit brazier glowing quietly next to it. Holmes led me up the stairs and into an empty office where I made myself comfortable and settled down to wait.

I had not had the foresight to bring a book or some other method of passing the time so the next half-hour passed slowly for me, until I heard the sound of a scuffle going on outside the warehouse. Shortly afterwards, four large black men came into view. They were dragging a short, scruffy fellow with them, but more noticeable was that all four of the black men appeared to be savages fresh from a jungle hunt, dressed in feathers, loincloths and very little else. I also noted that each had a rather large knife. Their victim was blabbering, and clearly terrified.

It was only as the 'savages' got closer that I recognized first Mr. Hope and then Sergeant Smith's friend Mr. Bell. It was impressive that I knew the former, as he had filled out very thoroughly and (thankfully) bore no relation to the wreck of a man I had once had to treat for his injuries. Both men like their friends made very convincing savages, certainly so to the jabbering wreck they had pinioned between them.

There was, I noticed for the first time, a large table with leather straps on it, presumably for the victim. The 'savages' ignored it for the moment and dragged the man up to where Holmes was sat impassively on a huge chair that was almost a throne, raised as it was on a low dais. He looked almost disinterestedly down at the new arrival. Then he smiled a slow smile, and I once more gave thanks that this great man had never chosen to follow a life of crime. Because that smile was pure evil.

“Mr. Lane”, he growled. “So good of you to join us for dinner.”

“Dinner?” the man squeaked, looking fearfully around. The four 'savages' had retreated to barely a step away from him as if ready to strike. The flash of steel from at least one knife glinted in the darkness. Even I shuddered, and I knew how false this scenario was. At least I hoped I knew.

“Of course”, Holmes beamed. “Not quite your conventional dinner invitation, I suppose. Because there is every likelihood that you will _be_ dinner.”

The trapped men let out a pitiful moan.

“It really is all your own fault”, Holmes said in a put-upon way, fanning himself with an expensive-looking paper fan that he had produced from somewhere. “The man you stabbed may have been a policeman, and with my background I am of course not disposed towards such people…..”

“I didn’t stab him!” the small man blurted out. “That was Dixie…”

Holmes silenced him with a Look. The man shuddered.

“I am afraid that I tend to the opinion that the likes of Mr. Dixie are but a weapon in the hands of the people who pay them”, Holmes said flatly. “Naturally I myself abhor violence, but alas, there are certain.... complications.”

One of the 'savages' emerged and prodded the prone man with a stick and he whined piteously. Holmes frowned slightly and snapped his fan at the attacker and the man quickly backed off, whimpering as he did so.

“Now, I myself would be quite prepared to let my friends here have their way with you”, Holmes said, “provided of course that I do not have to witness it. Cold steel unnerves me, and I so dislike the sight of blood. Unfortunately as I said, there is a complication. The man you killed was not only a policeman, but the lady he was courting happened to be a friend of my only daughter, dearest Rosalie, who was I am sorry to say Most Upset that you went and killed her friend's future husband. Ladies are irrational over such things but I have always given in to all her requests, and at the moment she requests _you_. Or at least your remains after my friends here have finished with you.”

The trapped man looked up. 

“Have mercy!” he cried.”

“The same mercy you showed Mr. Perkins?” Holmes asked dryly. “My daughter wants justice for her friend, Mr. Lane, and unless you were by some miracle prepared to confess your evil deed in murdering her friend's intended and serve the appropriate sentence....”

“They would hang me!” the man moaned.

And a sad loss that would not be, I thought acidly.

“Actually they would likely sentence you to a long spell in gaol”, Holmes said, “since you yourself did not do the foul deed. Mr. Dixie would doubtless face the drop by such a confession, although I suspect you would not overly concern yourself about him and _his_ family. No, I suppose I must let the dear boys here have their way with you.”

The man looked fearfully at the four savages, who had closed in around him.

“What’re they gonna do?” he quavered. Holmes sighed again.

“In their native land”, Holmes said calmly, “it is customary to avenge the death of a friend by inflicting – the English language does not have a word for it but I think it can be translated roughly as 'painfully slow death' - on the main perpetrator. They like to cut a number of non-fatal wounds in the victim’s body then boil them slowly for several hours, to ensure that they suffer for as long as possible. I recall that they managed to keep their last victim alive for up to two days, which was most tiresome as I could not use the warehouse for that duration. And I made the mistake of returning to the place and then had to leave because of all that dreadful screaming. Even earplugs were ineffective against it.”

Mr. Bell came forward and poked the cowering man, then said something unintelligible to Holmes. My friend merely gave him a long look and the man whimpered and bowed his head, retreating quickly into the darkness. 

“It seems that they are quite keen to get started”, Holmes said plaintively. “Ah well. If you cannot help me – Kintabe, be patient! – then I suppose I will just have to let them carry on. So be it.”

He stood as if to leave and the four savages closed in on their victim.

“No! Wait!”

Holmes sighed in a put-upon way.

“I did take the trouble to draw up a confession if you felt inclined to sign it”, he said. Then he looked at his watch. “Oh bother!”

“What is it?” the man asked.

“It is.... dear me, another phrase that does not translate easily. I would call it the Time of the Gods. They have to commune with their deity before sacrificing to them, presumably to alert them that a fresh – a fairly fresh - offering is heading their way. Not to worry. It will only take a few minutes.”

There was the sound of a drum beating from the darkness. The trapped man sank into himself even further.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

It must have been about an hour later, when the steady drum-beat stopped for what seemed like an age, before starting up again twice as fast as before. Holmes looked up and smiled.

“Good”, he smiled. “They are _finally_ ready. That beat is the precursor to Stage One of the ritual.”

I had not thought it possible for the man to go any paler, but he did so. 

“Stage One?” he asked tremulously.

“Oh did I not mention that?” Holmes said airily. “Silly me! Yes, Stage One is where they put _you_ to death, as slowly and painfully as possible. Stage Two is where they eliminate those of the first separation.”

“Separation?” the man said, clearly confused.

“Of blood”, Holmes said. “You know, father, mother, sisters, brothers, children and whatnot. Thankfully they do not treat them to the same method as you, or I would have something to say about that. I do have standards, you know. No, a quick knife across the throat as they are walking down the street tends to suffice. Most victims hardly feel a thing, or so they tell me.”

“You… you would kill my whole family?” the man gasped.

“Not your dear wife of course, as she is not blood,” Holmes said. “And I must say, Mr. Lane, that I really resent your use of the second person singular pronoun in that sentence. _I_ have no intention of killing anybody. You brought this solely on yourself, and you must live with the consequences. Though as this beat only lasts for about ten minutes at most you will not be living with them for much longer!”

Even I shuddered at the lazy evil in that smile.

“No!” the man yelled. “You can’t touch my boys!”

“As I said, _I_ shall not be doing anything to them”, Holmes said, taking out his pocket-watch and looking at it. “It is such a pity, really. I always told Rosalie that poor Perkins' job would be the death of him, and so it proved. Now he has paid the ultimate price. So, soon, shall you.”

“I'll confess!” the man yelled. “Please! Just keep the darkies off of me!”

Mr. Hope, who had somehow found the time to adorn himself with tribal war-paint had emerged silently from the shadows and was holding a large serrated blade like a scimitar over the captive. The small man was actually crying in fear.

“I really think that it is unwise of you to refer to one of my friends as a ‘darkie’, whatever that is”, Holmes said coolly. “This is _most_ tiresome. My other boys are collecting someone in an hour's time whom I really do not like at all, and I was thinking to let them practice some things on you first.”

“Have mercy!” the man begged. “I beg of you!”

Holmes sighed in exasperation, and looked at his pocket-watch.

“Well, I suppose that if you do confess – Busir, put that down immediately or I shall come over and have a Talk with you and we know how _that_ will end, do we not? – I suppose that I am morally obliged to show a sliver of gratitude. Let me think.”

The man before him was shaking.

“There is a ship leaving the West India Docks at nine o’clock tomorrow morning”, Holmes said, “The _“Spirit of the South”_. If you and your family can be on the quayside before then, I suppose that I _could_ ask the captain if there is room for you. Nothing special, mind.”

The tallest of the 'savages' growled and Holmes barked something unintelligible at him. He sank to the floor shivering in terror.

“Bad boy, Malto!” Holmes said angrily. “You know full well that you cannot have a piece of him for your collection; I have had cause to Talk to you about that sort of thing before, have I not? I really cannot cope with opening my writing-desk and finding body parts in it _again!”_

The tall savage whined piteously and cowered as he stared up at him, clearly fearful of some form of retribution. Holmes waved a dismissive hand at him and he shuffled back into the shadows, clearly glad to be away from that look. My friend then sighed in a put-upon manner and turned his stare back to the small man grovelling on the floor before him.

“It is less than twelve hours until the ship sails, Mr. Lane”, he said pointedly. “Do you need Kintabe's help to hold the pen?”

'Kintabe' looked positively gleeful at the prospect, his white teeth gleaming in the dark and the small man screamed before fleeing through to the table where several sheets of paper were waiting. He signed them without so much as a look, then fled towards where a suddenly open door was letting in the moonlight. I waited until he had gone for some little time before descending to meet my friend and his 'savages'.

Holmes stopped briefly to hand the signed papers to someone else in the darkness before joining us.

“You are letting him get away?” I asked dubiously.

“He will not get far”, Holmes said. “In less than half an hour the papers that he signed, which admit not to the crime of killing poor Perkins but to his murder of a young felon who was working for our friend Mr. Khrushnic, will be delivered to the latter's house. Mr. Lane will be lucky to make it home.”

Sergeant Josiah Smith emerged from the darkness.

“We can't thank you enough, sir”, he said firmly. “I only wish I had been part of the fun.”

“It was definitely believable”, I said. “And very clever.”

My friend smiled at the praise.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

The Holborn Bar, outside whose premises poor Percival Perkins had met his end, had put up a most generous reward for the capture of the killer. When the body of a certain Mr. Lane was fished out of the Thames they offered the money to Holmes, but he most generously asked them instead to pass the money on to the late constable's young widow, who sadly would not have qualified for a police pension because of her husband's short service. And he also left her an unexpected legacy – eight months after his demise, his widow gave birth to a healthy baby boy, whom she called Lancelot (his choice, apparently). His colleagues at the station raised a further considerable sum for her extra expenses, which Holmes matched from his own pocket. I was so proud of my friend for that.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
